


Old Debts

by October_rust



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Enemy Mine - Freeform, Humiliation, Kneeling, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Roche is a wanted man. Iorveth saves his life.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 16
Kudos: 151





	Old Debts

“Well, this brings back memories,” Iorveth says. 

“Does it?” Roche has to pause to spit out blood and Iorveth's gaze is briefly drawn to the crimson smear on Roche's lower lip. “Last time it was you on your knees, if I remember correctly.”

“And now our roles are reversed, because fate is a fickle mistress.” Iorveth bends down to wipe his blade clean on the cloak of the bounty hunter he's killed but a few moments ago. Satisfied, he puts it back in its sheath, then looks back again at Roche. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“Funny that,” Roche says. His dark eyes narrow in challenge. “The same could be said about you, you know. That dragon queen of yours --”

“You will not speak her name,” Iorveth cuts in smoothly, his voice low. Without hurry, he crosses over to where Roche is kneeling in the dirt. All around them, the Scoia'tael are busy looting and finishing off the wounded, daggers and swords flashing in the dappled light, interrupting the soft cries for mercy. Apart from that, the forest is quiet, the air hot and filled with the lazy buzzing of insects.

Iorveth stops mere inches from Roche; to his credit, Roche doesn't flinch at the proximity. He keeps quiet, just as Iorveth bid him, but the corner of his mouth is curved up in a mocking smile. Proud and stubborn, even with his wrists bound by iron shackles, even when he's lost everything – his king, his country, his men – and he's nothing more but an outlaw, captured and about to be sold to the Nilfgaardian headsmen.

And now his life is in Iorveth's hands. 

It's a heady thought, and Iorveth allows himself to savour that hot surge of power and vicious satisfaction. Up close, he can see the scratches and bruises on Roche's face; fresh blood is beading again on Roche's lip, courtesy of the punch that one of the bounty hunters managed to land just before Iorveth and his Scoia'tael attacked. 

Roche gives an exasperated sigh. “How long are you going to gawk at me, elf?”

“For as long as it pleases me, dh'oine.” 

He makes a show of it, slowly dragging his gaze up and down Roche's body. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, and it's sweet to watch how Roche's back stiffens under the scrutiny, how his jaw firms in a barely concealed outrage. Roche's wounded pride is a paltry shield, however. Gone are his swords and his chain of office, as are his heavy chainmail and gambeson. Oh, he can play at nonchalance, cling to his barbed words, but it won't change the fact that he's here, defenceless and kneeling at Iorveth's feet.

Like a vanquished enemy. 

Like a slave.

An involuntary shiver runs through Roche's muscles. Fear, exhaustion, old and new injuries – how long has he been fighting and eluding Emhyr's hounds? – are finally taking their toll. Iorveth commits them all to memory, those tell-tale signs of weakness, and something hot and possessive curls deep inside his belly. He stares at Roche's dark hair dampened with sweat, at the jut of the collarbone, at the flashes of pale skin peeking almost obscenely from beneath the tattered shirt, and hopes that his gaze is scalding Roche like a torturer's brand.

Roche's furious glare and flushed cheeks are enough of an answer.

Good.

Iorveth reaches out, grabs at Roche's manacles and hauls him up. 

Then, before Roche can find his balance, he gives the chains another sharp tug.

“You should be thanking me for saving you,” he whispers in Roche's ear.

“Should I?” Roche's voice is steady, still edged with mockery, yet his pulse is fluttering rapidly in the hollow of his throat. “Is this what you're doing?”

“Consider it a debt repaid,” Iorveth replies and tightens his arm around Roche's back, feels him tense in mute protest. “We Aen Seidhe --” 

The glint in Roche's eyes is the only warning. Suddenly, his fingers are clasping at Iorveth's collar, jerking him impossibly closer, cheek to cheek. Surprised, Iorveth can't help but gasp, his other hand scrambling and clutching convulsively at Roche's hip.

“Spare me this bullshit, bastard.” Roche's stubble prickles at Iorveth's skin. “Promise me one thing. You will be the one to kill me. Not those fucking Nilfgaardians or Emhyr's lapdogs. You. Only you.”

His grip loosens just as abruptly, and he sags in Iorveth's embrace. 

“Give me your word, Iorveth,” he repeats, and this time it's weary. Almost pleading.

Iorveth holds Roche's weight in silence. Lover-like, he thinks, and wants to laugh at himself and Roche. What a pair they are.

At last he says, “You have my word, Vernon Roche. When the time comes, you will fall by my blade.”

Roche hides his face against Iorveth's chest. Whether it's shame or gratitude, or some inexplicable mixture of the two, Iorveth cannot tell.


End file.
